Mothers of Inmates Find Solace

They filled the front pews of Dolores Mission Church at the 10:30 a.m. Spanish Mass.

Some women moved forward, sitting in those first three rows without shame, knowing it was a special service devoted to them. Others stepped forward later. Only after Father Michael Kennedy announced what day it was.

“Today, we are here for the mothers who have sons in prison,” Kennedy said. “If there is anyone who has a son in jail and would like to sit in the front, please come, so we can welcome you.”

Mother’s Day was last week, a day spent honoring mothers for all they do. But, for these women who gathered at Dolores Mission, Mother’s Day probably was spent behind bars with their sons, wrapped in each other’s arms and talking about forgiveness.

On Sunday, those mothers came to church together, seeking the strength they can only get from each other. Once a month, for the last three years, Dolores Mission has held a special Sunday Mass for mothers of incarcerated children, followed by a support group meeting at the parish school.

It started when five mothers gathered at the home of Javier Stauring, the Catholic chaplain at Central Juvenile Hall. From there, the group moved to a more formal setting at the church. Vicki Pacay, whose son Ruben is serving a 19-year sentence at Calipatria State Prison, was one of the group’s founding mothers. She said the idea for the group came because there were several mothers who just couldn’t face reality after their sons were locked up. It’s almost like their lives came to a stop, she said.

“I find support with them because we are walking with the same pain, on that same path full of thorns,” she said. “We’re there for each other. When we feel hopeless, no matter what day or what time, we can call each other up to talk. We have become a family.”

During the Mass, some mothers read cards and letters from their sons. “Thank you, mama, for not abandoning me,” read one letter. “I promise that I will come out and make something of myself,” said another.

After the letters were read, Jose “Azteca” Lam burst into a rap elegy recounting how his own bad choices had made his mother suffer. “My mother, I put you through hell. Now when I have a problem. Who will I tell? Perdoname, mi jefita.” Forgive me, my mother. Forgive me.

While support groups are not the usual Sunday services offered by the Catholic Church, Kennedy said he thinks these mothers are a good fit.

“I think Christianity means being nonjudgmental and identifying with people that are marginalized,” he said. “You have all those elements here. We also do ministry at Juvenile Hall with the kids, and they say they feel like lepers. They write those things and then we read it in church. So, I think church is a good place for this.”

Stauring, the Central Juvenile Hall chaplain, said no one can know how much pain a mother feels when her son is taken away in handcuffs to spend the rest of his life in prison. It is an agonizing stew of shame, guilt and blame, he said.

Many of the mothers say they are shunned by their own families who taunt them by saying, “You’re his mother! It’s your fault! You must be to blame!”

Stauring said those who have heard those hurtful words find comfort in the monthly Mass and support group.

“They feel accepted here,” he said. “They feel like they’re all going through the same journey.

“We’re also bringing light to the rest of the community, [showing] that there is a lot of suffering here in the neighborhood.”

After Mass, the mothers and families walked across the street to Dolores Mission School and gathered inside a classroom to share their experiences. Over a lunch of rice and beans, the women traded Polaroid shots of their children and spoke one by one, sometimes seeming impossibly strong, other times bursting into tears.

Shirley Rivera spoke about how her grandson Moses had fallen into the wrong crowd. He was charged with assault with a deadly weapon and handed a 19-year sentence. Standing before the group, she struggled to describe what she was feeling.

“It’s like when you think of your kids sometimes, you see them as if they were 5 or 6,” she said. “You don’t see them as grown-ups. When he was little, I would put him to bed and he was safe. He was safe.”

Virginia Rochas is fighting to appeal her son Amalio’s sentence. She said he was wrongfully tied to a murder that happened while he was at a party in Highland Park. Amalio was arrested when he was 16 and handed a sentence of 29 years to life plus life. He had no previous run-ins with the law, Rochas said.

“No one understands what I’m going through. Not even my own family,” she said. “No one knows that I relive those moments every day: the day they arrested him. The day he was found guilty. The day he went to prison. I relive those things every day. I never spoke about any of that until I came here.”